


Right Start on the Rubble

by newsbypostcard



Series: Taking the Time [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Reunions, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:10:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbypostcard/pseuds/newsbypostcard
Summary: Five of the strangest days of Bucky's life—saying something, given the last decade—and seeing Steve waiting for him, dead asleep on his stomach with his mouth hanging open, hair tousled and wet, makes it all seem worthwhile.





	Right Start on the Rubble

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 will help this fic make sense. I did not tag for MCD, but the MCD in Endgame is referenced in conversation.

  


The apartment in Bloomberg is still intact; Bucky hadn't been sure it would be. Apocalypses can be so unreliable. On giving Steve the address—writing it down on his arm so he wouldn't forget—he'd expected Steve to argue, tones of _"You kept a secret apartment?"_ drifting through his head. But Steve hadn't even asked. Looking at Bucky like he half-expected him to turn back to dust, himself covered in dirt and grief from head to toe, he seemed content to accept the break they were given without too much in the way of backtalk. 

The unit's front door is locked so firmly that Bucky thinks it must still be nailed shut. Steve must be coming and going through the window. With a gentle smile, Bucky slips back outside, fingers finding purchase between brick grooves. It's been a while, but the right muscles still work. 

He'd spent three weeks here in 2014—the early days, back when his memories first started to surface in sharp flashes he didn't understand. The flat only has one room, plus a water closet; technically there's a shower, but it's over the toilet. It wasn't much, but the bare walls and boarded door had given Bucky the canvas he'd needed to piece his history together, figure out who he was. 

It's kind of fitting, meeting Steve here. Bucky had kept three safehouses across the U.S.; had only started thinking about letting payments drop around the time he Disappeared. Why Bucky'd chosen to meet Steve at the shittiest of the three—how he'd known it hadn't been inhabited by someone else—was boggling enough that he'd stopped thinking about it for long. Bucky'd told Steve to meet him here because old-Steve had told him what to say, but old-Steve only knew they'd met here because Bucky'd told this Steve where to go.

Bucky hates time travel.

Although maybe he doesn't, because Steve is fast asleep in his bed.

It can't be called a bed. Optimistically, it's a futon. It's not even really his; Bucky'd inherited it from the flat's doomed last owner. Steve's put sheets on it—bought pillows, a duvet. Apart from a shopping bag, empty takeout containers, and a still-damp towel thrown over a chair, the place is exactly as barren as Bucky left it.

It's perfect. Five of the strangest days of Bucky's life—saying something, given the last decade—and seeing Steve waiting for him, dead asleep on his stomach with his mouth hanging open, hair tousled and wet, makes it all seem worthwhile.

  


  


  


"What happened with you and Steve," Sam had asked, in the middle of things. "It permanent?"

Bucky hadn't immediately answered. He'd still had no idea what he was doing at Stark's home, except that old-Steve was there and Bucky felt obligated to be nearby—that age-old instinct to hang back just in case Steve got into trouble. 

Bucky's friendship with Sam seemed built mostly on proxied trust. They both trusted Steve, and Steve trusted the both of them, so Bucky and Sam seemed able to extend each other at least a bit of slack. The truth was that they barely knew each other, but after Old-Steve and Bucky had staged an argument within earshot of the others, Bucky'd stormed out and away from him to stand by the lake—only for Sam to step level and keep him company for nearly an hour.

Why he'd found _Bucky_ and not Steve was beyond comprehension, but Bucky found himself warmed regardless. Sam had just stood in equanimous silence. Even if his falling out with Steve had been fake, the kindness mattered. Sam had met Bucky where he was. 

Even worse, Bucky thought that in a similar situation, he would've done the same. If they weren't careful, he and Sam might strike up an actual friendship.

Bucky didn't like lying to Sam, but he hadn't found the falling out difficult to sell. Sam, to his credit, wasn't exactly on top of his game. He kept rubbing at his chest every time someone reminded him of the year, like just the thought gave him heartburn. Bucky started nudging his shoulder every time he looked lost, reminding him someone was there who knew how he felt, and in moments of Bucky's put-upon grief, Sam had started doing the same. 

Bucky supposed he looked pretty intentional about the moderate berth he was giving old-Steve; he could still hear the nature of most of his conversations, stood ready to catch someone's attention if Steve needed an out. It probably looked lovesick from Sam's point of view. That meant Sam was asking because he was actually concerned about Bucky's wellbeing—or at least was trying to fend off a heartbreak-related assassination spree. A testament to how little they knew each other: Bucky couldn't be sure what Sam thought. But Bucky decided the reasons for the question didn't matter near as much as the fact that he'd asked.

"You could say that," Bucky said, stacking more kindling for the bonfire. It _was_ permanent, what he and Steve were doing.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, sounding like he meant it. "Honest to God, I thought you'd be together to the end of the world."

Bucky ducked his head to hide the smile and put a new log to splinter into position. It was nice to have a functioning left arm again—something to brand a gold band into, if it came down to it. "Yeah, Wilson," he said, hefting the axe. "So did I."

  


  


  


Having waited five days—having waiting five years—for Bucky to slip back into his life, Steve's oblivious to him now, claimed deeply by sleep. Bucky's breath catches seeing Steve there, half-naked in Bucky's bed.

Steve's alert in an instant. He props himself up on one hand, squinting at Bucky as though trying to decide if he's there. "Hi," he says, bleary.

"Hi." Bucky's charmed by his dopey face. He unzips his jacket, takes another step in. "Go back to sleep."

Steve gives a dissenting hum and shifts his weight to one elbow, muffling a yawn with his fist. "Time is it?" he asks. When he slides his hips back, the sheets tent enough to show Bucky he's naked by more than just half. 

"Little past eight," Bucky says. "You just drop off?"

"Couple hours ago." Steve rubs his eyes. "Been a while."

"Since you slept?"

"Keep getting the feeling I'm supposed to be somewhere, doing something."

"Somehow I doubt you've spent five days doing nothing."

Steve grunts and waves a dismissive hand. "Incidental disasters. I happen to see 'em… I'm not gonna walk away."

"And if you happen to be standing on high ground with full view of the town…"

"Well, who would I be if I didn't help?"

Draping his jacket over a chair, Bucky's braced with affection. "Jesus Christ."

Steve's face softens out, like he's just figuring out he's not having a dream. "Hi," he says breathily. "You here to stay?"

"For a few days, at least."

Steve's mouth parts into an unfettered smile. "How'd it go? Everything alright, everything normal?"

Bucky sighs, bending over his laces. "Not sure about normal. Lots of mourning, lots of triumph... people seem mostly confused, still on their toes. But, yeah—the things happened that were supposed to happen. Saw you off; you came back looking ancient; you gave Sam the shield; you went back to 2033. It worked out, I guess."

"Right." When Bucky looks up, Steve's looking at him like he could have said anything and Steve would have answered the same. "Come to bed." 

Bucky never could argue with a naked blond. He steps out of his shoes, unclasps his jeans. "Sure about this?" he asks, even as Steve welcomes him with an extended arm. "Been five years."

"No one knows how long it's been better than me."

A gentle rain starts to fall outside—the only sound through the window as Bucky peels out of his jeans. "Stop laughing," Bucky says as Steve grins, "it's hard work to look this good"—but when Bucky kneels on the bed and moves to take off his shirt, Steve leans forward to stop him with hand at his wrist.

It's all it takes for levity to drain from the room. Steve's hand on his skin sucks the breath from their lungs, turns their gazes blistering. The soft static of rain marks the passing seconds, until slowly, licking his lips, Steve pulls himself to sitting. He lifts the hem of Bucky's shirt with trembling hands; his fingers, his palms climb the ladder of Bucky's ribs. Every gesture holds reverence enough to put an ache in Bucky's chest. He leans forward so Steve can pull the shirt off, planting a hand at Steve's other side, and as the fabric clears, there's bright-eyed Steve—unflinchingly searching with thumb at Bucky's cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind Bucky's ear.

It's the same thing he did at the Compound five days back—but he was ten years older then. Ten years from now, with Bucky in his sights, Steve has the same instincts, handles Bucky with just the same care. The thought alone is enough to pull Bucky down, to set his brow against Steve's, breath stuttering just as hard. God, Bucky saw him last week; he saw him two days ago, it hasn't been long enough for him to feel like this. It sure as shit hasn't been to Bucky what it's been to Steve. Steve, swallowing, seems overtaken by it all. He maps out Bucky's back and shoulders with his hands, taking stock with his eyes closed. Bucky's still in his boxer-briefs, but he may as well be naked. The willingness for intimacy is sometimes hard for Bucky to unearth, but when it boils up from the deepest part of him in moments like these, he wants to give himself over entirely. 

They're always forced to find each other under the rubble of time, but when they do it's like air in his lungs. Steve Rogers loves him. Even after five years, there's not a modicum of doubt. Steve tilts his mouth up and kisses Bucky soft, his breath reedy and short, and Bucky doesn't know where to be or how to move—just draws the kiss out long, until they sink together. A slow immersion. Steve's fingers dig into Bucky's skin as Bucky deepens the kiss, and Bucky twists an arm behind Steve's back, holding him close, until Steve's neck cranes back, lungs shuddering for air. 

"Hey," Bucky says against Steve's neck. Steve's fingers are pressing so hard into Bucky's hips that Bucky doesn't dare try to move. Raising a hand to cradle his head, Bucky presses a kiss at the sharpest angle of Steve's jaw. "We got time here," he says, nosing behind Steve's ear, "breathe—"

But another furious heave of Steve's chest and the slow tilt of his face until it's hidden in Bucky's palm, and Bucky knows what this is. He sits back on his haunches, brushing doting fingers across Steve's brow. "It's alright," Bucky says, although it's not. Romanoff's dead for wrong and right reasons, and for all their differences, Steve cared for Stark. He's sat alone with his grief for the past five days and now, with Bucky here with for the first time in five years, it's all coming undone. Steve's always done this—carried the world on his shoulders until his back finally breaks. Steve's flogged himself for his weaknesses his whole damn life. It's about time he cut himself a break.

The angle's still awkward with Bucky hunched over, but Steve still doesn't want Bucky to move. Finally Bucky clicks his tongue and forces the issue, holding Steve's hands as he nudges his legs apart with one knee. "I'm not going anywhere," Bucky mutters, hitching a leg over Steve's hips.

"I've been selfish," Steve mutters.

Bucky sets his ass down in the nest of Steve's legs. "Nope," he says, scooting up closer. His knees bracket Steve's ribs; Steve's hands grasp onto his thighs.

"Might've made a mistake."

"No," Bucky says. "I guarantee you, nobody thought any of this was a mistake when they were throwing themselves on the pyre. You just think it was a mistake that you survived. That's not the same as thinking undoing the Snap was a mistake. That's the problem with you hero types, you know that? You always think there's a trade. You didn't fail just because you lived, Steve. You've been thinking like that for fifteen damn years. Time to knock it off."

Steve sets his brow against Bucky's temple, nose at his cheek, and brackets his hands to hold Bucky close. Bucky wonders what he was like after the Snap; wishes Natasha was around for him to ask. No part of his elation at having Bucky in his arms feels untouched by this miring guilt, like it's pumping through his veins. Bucky wishes he knew how to take it out of Steve for good.

"Listen," he says, taking both of Steve's hands in his. "You're retiring, alright?"

"No. I—"

"Nope," Bucky says mildly. "We're deciding this right now. Not a complete retirement; I just saw you from the future looping back to finish up everything you left. Ten years from now you're clearly still in the fight. But you're done living for the lives of other people, that's enough."

Steve's shaking his head, juggling vowels on his tongue. "Nope," Bucky says, cutting Steve off before he even really starts. He's at least confused Steve into dryer eyes; calmly mops the tears off his face with a palm. "I already said we're decided."

" _You_ said _we've_ decided."

"Mhm. You wanna argue with me? I got more mental stamina right now, see how far you get."

Steve studies Bucky with faint incredulity. "Bucky..."

"You gonna make me say it the long way? Fine, here it is: I'm here." Bucky strokes his thumbs across Steve's ribs. That stubborn heart lives in there. It's Bucky's lot to keep it safe. "I'm taking care of you now. I took my time out—"

"You didn't take—" 

"I've got a ways to go," Bucky says over him, "but I have the tools to build myself up. You… don't. You're throwing yourself away just in the course of this conversation. I'm not putting up with that, c'mon."

"You don't take have to care of—"

"Apparently you and me are taking turns, and it's my turn now, so stop complaining. I got things in the world covered for a while. Sam's got this, Banner; Fury's there haranguing the crew. The Steve I saw from the future—I'm not trying to compare you to him, but he was _settled_ , Steve, he knew what had to happen. He knew what Stark had to do—stop," Bucky says, when Steve bows his head again. "That's exactly what I'm talking about. He's not the only one who let it happen. Strange knew. Natasha knew what was gonna happen when she jumped off that cliff. Sometimes that's how it goes, and I know you know that firsthand. You did the same goddamn thing when you set down the Valkyrie, Steve. You ended that war; Stark ended this one. Are you hearing me? It's _over_. The war is over, sweetheart. Now comes the rest."

Steve's shaking his head, but Bucky shakes his right back. "That's why you're retiring," Bucky tells him, "at least part way. You need to make peace with.... peace. You went to sleep during one war and woke up in another, but they're both done now. Look at me." Bucky lifts Steve's chin. "Listen. There is still work to be done. I know that, and you know that. But you are not a soldier at war anymore." Bucky grasps his jaw with a firm hand. "You are Steve Rogers. This is your life. Reach out and take it."

Bucky hopes he's the evidence of his words. After all that Steve's lost, there are things he's gained back; Bucky's one of them, sitting here balls to balls. Neither one of them have any idea what this stupid life is trying to do to them, why it keeps trying to break them just to bring them back home—but they're in it. Ten-years-older Steve had told him that much. They're in this shit soup together, and Bucky sees in Steve's eyes that still counts for something.

Steve runs his hands down the length of Bucky's thighs, gripping firm, fingers curling to the underside of Bucky's legs. "Reach out and take it," Steve murmurs. Then he catches the bottom hem of Bucky's boxer briefs between two fingers. "Take these? Off you? Is that what you meant?"

"Hmm," Bucky frowns, but he breaks into a searing grin when Steve grabs him round the middle and pulls him as close as they can get.

"Is this what you meant?" Steve murmurs, sliding his nose against Bucky's. "Am I doing it right?"

"I think we're getting there," says Bucky, "why don't you expand," and it's a long, pulling moment before Steve takes his mouth—the first of many, Bucky prays, burying his hands in Steve's hair, that they may have the luxury to take.

  



End file.
